


Last Stop

by SpaceHotel



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reader-Insert, Reverse Harem, Slow Burn, Spoilers, gender-neutral
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceHotel/pseuds/SpaceHotel
Summary: You were not a doll to be toyed with, to be paraded upon stage at the behest of a man whose obsession eclipsed both your present and your future. Yet despite your best efforts, what started out as a journey of self-discovery and the arduous struggle to find independence so quickly devolved into something far worse.Yes, misery loves company. But you were beginning to think that there wasn’t enough room on this crazy ride to reasonably assume that everyone would make it out in one piece.





	Last Stop

Often you would stop and ask yourself, _who were you meant to be?_

Ostensibly, you were a second-year repeater who used to like Friday night karaoke and the feeling of taut strings beneath your fingertips. You liked the weight of a guitar in your hands, dumb action films and unintentionally funny B-movies, humid summer nights, and the brownies your father used to bake after midnight. Beyond that you found it hard to assign yourself a proper definition.

Your mother, as many parents do, had a long list of expectations for you. Big dreams and big goals were saddled upon you because you were her child, and hey, weren’t you just the most talented kid in her doting eyes. She was the type of person who could look you head-on and say with absolute faith that maybe one day you would become an indie-artist who could land frequent gigs at some of the hottest bars and clubs in Shinjuku.

Or maybe, just maybe, you would put away the sheet music, the notebooks covered front to back with lyrics, and pursue something more stable—a quiet, boring office job at some well-to-do company, or a stint as the next processed patty flipper at the nearest Big Bang Burger. What could you say? You didn’t often subscribe to your mother’s brand of idealism.

But the time you spent speculating, entertaining all of those fanciful what-ifs, never lasted very long these days because you knew for a fact that none of those things were possible.

It wasn’t merely a truth that was etched in stone. It was painted across your skin with fixated hands that worked tirelessly to transform you into something you were not, someone you could never be.

It all started one year ago, when your mother’s old flame came barreling into your lives with pleasant smiles and words of encouragement. Your father had recently passed away and for a while you had been bitter at the thought that some guy who knew nothing about you and your family was trying to fill the void your dad had left behind.

Turns out it had been the other way around, that he’d been looking to fill a void of his own. He hadn’t swooped in to save the day, to pull your mother out from beneath the oncoming waves of depression and win her affections. His sights were set on you and the lines of your face, and the curve of your body, and the fact that if he closed his eyes and envisioned you with darker hair and lighter eyes that you could be the spitting image of your mom back when the two of them had first met in college.

And it hadn’t taken very long for him to grow tired of using his imagination.

You didn’t like to think about it. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, an unpleasant chill down your spine. So you were relieved when Ryuji returned, breaking your concentration as he dragged all four legs of a nearby chair up to your desk as if he enjoyed the screech of metal against wood.

The distraction really put into perspective just how far down the rabbit hole you had gone, and your stomach gave one nauseating turn accordingly. How did you become so sidetracked in the few short minutes it had taken him to buy drinks from the vending machines down the hall? You tried to follow your train of thought, tried to recall just which stop you had gotten off at, before deciding that it wasn't really important in the end. What truly mattered was Ryuji's inquisitive stare and the fact that you hadn't schooled your expression fast enough for your thickheaded friend to overlook.

“What’s up? You look even more sullen than usual,” he quipped as he took a seat before setting two cans down on the table.

You turned away to face the foggy window to your left and the scribbles you had placed upon it during class when the teacher wasn’t looking. “Nothing much. This rain is just killing my mood.”

He paused, quirked an eyebrow, and you could imagine what he was probably thinking, that your mood was in a constant state of rigor mortis. “Why’s that? You got plans or somethin’?”

“Not really, I just can’t stand this kind of weather.” You shrugged, running a finger along the cool glass to begin a new picture in the hopes he would stop fishing for answers.

He watched as you moved your hand up and down and wondered, not for the first time since meeting you, why you seemed to enjoy drawing silly pictures on windows. And though you felt his gaze on your back he eventually put away the old, rusty angler rod and let you off the hook. A peaceful lull quickly followed, the calming kind of quiet where background sounds faded away into gentle white noise in your ears. You could vaguely make out the soft chatter of your fellow classmates and the shifting of your blond companion as he popped open the tab of his beverage.

But Ryuji, you didn’t peg him as a guy who often enjoyed prolonged lapses of silence.

He took a large gulp of his drink before he leaned in to scrutinize your handiwork with narrowed eyes. “What is that even supposed to be?”

“Red Hawk. You know, leader of the Phoenix Rangers?” The perplexed look on his face was hard to ignore as you watched his reaction through the dull reflection on the glass. You made it a point to ignore his laugh as he tried to decipher where, in his words, Red Hawk’s ass ended and his head began. “I took some creative liberties.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and flatly stated, “Looks like shit.”

And like always, he went in straight for the kill.

“An artistic dream has been crushed today,” you lamented before washing away the remnants of your shattered pride with a swig of your canned coffee. He rolled his eyes in acknowledgement of your drab sense of humor. 

“I know what you mean though. We could never practice outside on rainy days like this when I was on track, and the volleyball team always had first dibs on the gym…” His voice trailed off as you finally spared him a glance, and he uncomfortably shifted positions in his seat when he noticed it wasn’t his face you were looking at. “What? If you got something to say, then just say it.”

You weren’t deterred in the least by his suddenly antagonistic response. Though you hadn't known him long you had grown accustomed to his prickly demeanor and how often he seemed to shift gears. “You’re walking better lately. Does your leg still hurt?”

It was then that he crumbled in the way all sandcastles did against the ongoing barrage of the ocean's tide. His effervescent expression bled away until his face resembled the weather outside, a stormy, gloomy mix of bitterness and remorse. Broad shoulders sagged as he slouched in his seat, drink temporarily forgotten as he cradled the can between both hands.

“Nah, not anymore. Not that it matters much these days.”

It definitely still mattered. The track team had been disbanded not that long ago, but even if the team were still active he wouldn’t be welcomed by his peers. Ryuji, former star runner, had incurred the wrath of Shujin Academy’s sports coach, Kamoshida. A fight had broken out between the two and disciplinary measures against the team were taken as a result.

Or so you had heard through the grapevine. Rumors created by bored teens seemed to spread just as quickly as any tidbits of gossip found on the pages of some sketchy tabloid magazine, and were as equally confusing to make heads or tails of. You hadn’t been around when it all took place, but by the time you had returned to school Ryuji had earned himself the title of delinquent. That was all old news by now, but the wounds it gave birth to were still fresh in more ways than one. Sure, he was a jerk sometimes, and he really did have a minor attitude problem to boot. But if there was one thing you did know, you knew for certain that Ryuji was a pretty swell guy despite his shortcomings. 

You may not know what truly happened that day, and Ryuji didn’t like talking about it, but it couldn’t have been anything good if he walked away from it all—or didn’t, as it were—with a broken leg.

You tore your gaze away from him, bothered by his suddenly crestfallen appearance. “Sorry. That was a stupid question.”

“…’S fine,” he waved off with a flippant flick of his hand, though the hurt in his eyes still remained. “You got the goods though, right? That’ll more than make up for it.”

His blunt demand was sigh-inducing, but you pulled your packed lunch from your school bag regardless. He leaned forward as you placed it upon the table, rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm and a quiet cheer, and you had to wonder if he was simply acting like a dweeb to make you feel better after your verbal faux pas.

“Do you have to make this sound like a drug deal? I swear you only talk to me because I give you free food.”

“What? C’mon, there’s more reason to it than that,” he loudly exclaimed as you offered him a pair of disposable chopsticks. “Us outcasts have to stick together, yeah? I’ll look out for ya’, and you can look out for my stomach.”

You took one look at him, subtly amused, before declaring, “You say that like it’s some kind of lame pick-up line.”

He paused to break apart his chopsticks with an ever-growing smile. “Is it working?”

“My heart is beating faster by the second.” You disinterestedly speared a piece of pickled cabbage and popped it into your mouth. Too salty, you decided, as you scrunched up your nose and forced yourself to chew.

“You’re not even trying to sound genuine,” he complained, but perked up as he ransacked your bento box with renewed vigor. “But man, this is some good shit. Compliments to the chef!”

Your nose remained scrunched for an entirely new reason. “…I’ll pass along the message.”


End file.
